


Heaviest Autumn

by seamusdeanforever_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamusdeanforever_archivist/pseuds/seamusdeanforever_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Bec.</p><p>Theirs is another Lost Generation. (first published September 2002.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaviest Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Cora: this story was originally archived at [Seamus/Dean Forever](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Seamus/Dean_Forever), which I opened in 2002, and which was closed in 2005 when the server that hosted it was closed. To re-open the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2015. An announcement was posted to OTW media channels, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Seamus/Dean Forever archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/seamusdeanforever/profile).
> 
> ***
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

This is when they all start thinking about war. The curses are new and practical: crystallizing blades of grass so "blades" isn't just a simile now; breaking leylines open like exploded pipes; spectacular, breath-taking pyrotechnics.

We mean breath-taking literally.

We are teaching these to our enemies, says Seamus.

What is this "we". Just because no one questions our loyalties and never will doesn't mean we're teachers, Dean says, twitching his wand and weighting the leaves on a model tree.

The Slytherins are better at the curses the Gryffindors are better at the counters the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws will be left alone by the end to clean up the damage and head reconstruction units.

The leaves fall in a heap. Dean can see every future soldier beneath concussed under the heaviest autumn of all time.

  
  


Seamus has so many cards to play. I'm from Ireland, you think I don't know war? Me mum's a witch, you think I don't know history? Me dad's a Muggle, you think I'm no target?

Dean never fails to be amazed at the sympathy he is given; Dean holds his face between his hands at night and reminds Seamus that he's from the south, that he never explained this war to Dean, that his dad's nothing but a name and an awkwardly animated photograph.

  
  


The camp's set up on the moors.

It's like something out of Tolkien, Dean mutters, letting his satchel drop to the ground, and Seamus nods and pretends to recognize the reference. Everyone looks grayer than they had at school. A glamour's been cast on the camp and even inside it fades and softens the lines of frightened adolescent faces, dusty knee boots with the flap folded over, poison rings and protection charms from home gleaming weakly on fingers.

  
  


I don't want to be the footsoldier in the play who brings a message and is then pierced through with a spear and dies gasping out the only line there was to memorize.

  
  


They wait for months there, and every day the news is worse and contradicts what came before. Seamus learns to juggle.

  
  


My mother would not be proud of me, Dean says, staring at the remains of the house. The chimney, resting on the ground now, shudders and collapses, and when they check, they find sparrows crushed under the bricks. Seamus calls him a hero, and he feels like a vandal. He might as well be wearing a bandana and wielding spraypaint, but he does like the way Seamus stares at the cloud of dust layered over the site of the explosion and the soot on his hands.

Soot streaks and the tiny stepping-stones of blood Dean's broken nails scratch into Seamus's back, and they're only facedown in a basement now because at least someone's not going to survive and you fucking might as well have a few assisted orgasms before you're called to the air strikes force and you don't come back. You go ASF and you won't.

  
  


Eight days before the end, wands start cracking in half with a sound like a gunshot all over the camp, and it's more than an inconvenience. Seamus screams himself hoarse as magic leaks out from his fingernails and the grooves in his chapped lips. He clutches at empty air even after Dean climbs to the crest of the western hill and flings the two five-inch sticks of pine over the side. Dean pulls the split unicorn hair out first, though, and chews on the ends.

Seamus won't stay in the infirmary tent. His face is creased and ugly with sorrow, and when Dean kisses him his mouth is grainy and sour, and Dean holds his breath to keep from vomiting.

  
  


Two days before the end, Dean is sent with a memorized message for Figg's command at the Knot. He borrows Ginny's broom with the straw almost gone, and forgets to watch for spears. He's not air strikes, but by that hour anything flying, a hawk even, is suspect.

  
  


The right side wins, but the story has already ended. Hasn't it?


End file.
